


Pride Goeth

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, MASH (TV)
Genre: Angels, Doctors & Physicians, Gen, Priests, Surgeons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-14
Updated: 2005-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: An evening after another day in surgery.





	Pride Goeth

"I _said_ , "Sponge"!" Frank screamed as the harried and exhausted nurse rushed to comply.

"Careful, Frank," Hawkeye said, "you don't want to give yourself a heart attack when my dance card's just been cleared, do you?" He started closing up the boy on the table with a sense of satisfaction at the speed with which the operation had proceeded. "Next!"

"The day I put myself in your hands, Pierce, is the day I'll --" Frank began.

"Find you really have been talking out of your -- afternoon, Padre," Hawkeye said cheerfully as Mulcahy and a middle-aged man came up to him. "Who's your date?"

"A professional colleague," Mulcahy said absently, making the sign of the cross over Hawkeye's patient and murmuring quietly in Latin.

"It's nice that someone's a professional around here," Hawkeye said. "I only went to med school because my favourite game as a kid was playing doctor. There was this little co-ed who liked playing nurse, and --"

"Pierce!" Frank yelled in outrage.

"Put a sock in it, Frank," Henry sighed. "The Fathers know the facts of life."

Hawkeye looked at Mulcahy. What could be seen of his face above the surgical mask was rather flushed.

"Sorry, Father," he said. "Fathers."

"I'm not a priest," the other man said, in the kind of voice Hawkeye usually only heard being particularly earnest on the BBC programmes on shortwave.

"Episcopalian minister, Baptist Pastor, Rabbi, Imam, leader of a little known apocalyptic cult?" Hawkeye suggested, tying the final outer stitches off neatly. Nothing looked worse than sloppy knots.

"Arch-druid?" Trapper threw in from the next table.

"Just a colleague of Francis'," the man said, looking down with interest. "Oh. Oh, _dear_."

"What?" Hawkeye said. The man flicked a glance up at him, and back down at the boy, eyes narrow and concerned. "He's doing OK, don't worry." He hoped he wasn't going to have a sobbing clergyman to deal with. The kid had turned out to be a lot simpler to fix up than he had seemed at first, he was going to do Hawkeye proud; still an OR could be intimidating to someone without much experience.

The man looked up again, his eyes focusing on a spot over Hawkeye's shoulder. "Please," he said. "He's so _young._ "

Hawkeye looked behind him. As he thought, there was only Frank, tormenting nurses and occasionally remembering he had a man on his table.

"Hey," he said. "Really, this kid's OK. I minored in embroidery, he's nicely sewn up in French Knots."

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure you're right," the man said, dragging his gaze back to Hawkeye's face. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

 

* * *

That evening Hawkeye found Mulcahy and his friend in Mulcahy's tent, drinking what was most definitely not home-made gin.

"Hawkeye!" Mulcahy said, his face pink and cheerful. "Would you like a drink? Can we spare Captain Pierce a drink?"

"He needs one," the man said, pouring a generous measure of whisky into the third glass that stood waiting on the little table.

"How did you --" Hawkeye began, taking an automatic sip. He paused. The whisky was far better than anything he'd had since he'd ended up in Korea. It was better than anything Henry thought he had safely locked away. "How did you get this?" he asked, awed.

"I have my ways," the man smiled, refilling Mulcahy's glass. "But that isn't really your question, is it?" He gestured to the third chair. "Have a seat, Captain. We're reading the funnier bits of the Bible to each other."

"It's the best offer I've had in months, but no thanks," Hawkeye said, taking another sip. He looked over the rim of his glass as calmly as he could. "That boy died."

"I know," the man said gently. "Such a terrible waste of life."

"There wasn't any reason for him to die," Hawkeye said. "He was doing _fine_ , and when the nurse checked on him in post-op he was gone. And you knew. How?"

"Ah," the man said. "Well. There are two ways I could explain it to you, Captain Pierce. I could tell you I saw the Angel of Death waiting to take him, or I could be more prosaic and tell you I've seen a lot of men die of their wounds, and I know the signs."

"I think I'll go with the Angel of Death one," Hawkeye said. "It's more cheerful somehow." He swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and nodded as the man held out the bottle to him. "I didn't catch your name before," he said.

"Aziraphale," the man said, topping up both Mulcahy's glass and his own.

"You English folk have such quaint names!" Hawkeye said in forced jollity.

"Hmm. Yes. You really should have been talking to Francis about how you're feeling, Benjamin. He's a good listener."

"Oh, I don't know --" Mulcahy said modestly.

"What about how I'm feeling?" Hawkeye said. "And don't call me Benjamin."

"You've been losing patients," Aziraphale said. "They give you the worst cases because you're the best, and your pride makes you refuse help if at all possible, and every man you lose you take as a personal affront from the universe. Believe me, Captain Pierce, the universe's attention is not focused solely on you."

"Hey!" Hawkeye said, at the same time that Mulcahy shifted uneasily in embarrassment.

"There are some people you can't save," Aziraphale went on implacably. "There are some with whom it is kinder not to try. You are not to blame for everything, no matter how important you think you are."

"Your pastoral skills could do with a refresher course," Hawkeye said in irritation.

"I'd flatter you and say it's an excess of sympathy that a doctor really can't afford," Aziraphale said, "but I think you're the sort of man who thinks he prefers the truth. You're getting to the point where you'd be ready to do _anything_ if you could be assured you wouldn't have to drop another point on your personal surgical score-card." He filled Hawkeye's glass to the brim. "And frankly, Captain, I have -- another colleague -- who'd be ready to take you up on that. You're very lucky he owes me a favour and handed your case over to me."

Hawkeye downed his whisky and stood up. "I'm going back to the Swamp," he said. "Goodnight, Father. Goodnight, you, you -- just what gives you the right to talk to me like that?"

"I'm just giving you an outside perspective," Aziraphale said. "I suppose I'm not as patient with this sort of thing as I used to be. Neither of us is perfect, Captain, and I must confess to a certain liking for getting things over quickly. So, let's fix you up. Just do your best from now on, and don't think the universe is trying to insult you when you fail."

Hawkeye slammed the glass down on the table.

"Now, ahem, don't be afraid," Aziraphale said mildly as Hawkeye strode for the door.

Hawkeye turned back to tell Mulcahy's irritating friend what he thought of that suggestion, and his eyes filled with light.

He blinked and found himself nursing a whisky as Mulcahy and Aziraphale giggled over like naughty schoolboys over the Song of Songs. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, and vaguely thought he must not have been very interesting company.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Good Lord, it's almost 2AM," Mulcahy said. "I really didn't notice the time going by."

"I'd better go," Hawkeye said, standing. He nodded politely to Mulcahy's guest as he crossed the tent, pausing by the door. "I really thought he'd live," he said quietly.

"I know," Aziraphale said sadly. "It's not your fault. Sometimes they just die."

"Yeah," Hawkeye said, wishing that wasn't the case. "Yeah. Sorry I drank all your whisky."

"You come and talk to Francis in future," Aziraphale said. "I'll be leaving a bottle with him. You make him share it."

Hawkeye nodded and left. He needed to sleep. There'd be more patients tomorrow, no doubt, and he needed to be rested. He had to do his best for the boys whose lives were suddenly thrust into his hands.

* * * * * * * *


End file.
